


Sentenced

by Silva_13



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bullying, Jim is a prison officer, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, PrisonAU, Ross is sentenced to life imprisonment for murder, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silva_13/pseuds/Silva_13
Summary: Jim had seen a lot during the years in this job; rapists, murderers, drugs, violence. But yet, nothing of that could have prepared him for the disaster which was about to come his way...





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My_Trex_has_fleas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/gifts).



> This is a prize [My_Trex_has_fleas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/pseuds/My_Trex_has_fleas) won in the WinterFRE2018. She didn't have a special wish for this fic, only "DarkHawk would be nice." So I went and racked my brain and as a result this happened. And then it suddenly snowballed into something bigger, so that I'm not able to post the entire story in time. I hope you like this first chapter anyway :)
> 
> This is my very first DarkHawk and I'm very excited (and very nervous) about it. I didn't have the time to dig too deep into research for this, so please forgive me any inaccuracy which might come up.  
> Also, English is not my first language and this is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine! :)

The gate opened and Jim watched the bus slowly driving into the inner yard. The doors remained closed until both of the double gates were shut again. He sighed deeply, as those days were the worst. 

_Here we go._

As if by command an ear-splitting yelling and hooting arose from the different sections of the yard, which were parted by high chain-link fences with barbed wire on the top end. The convicts had been unsettled the entire morning, knowing it was arrival day. It was the same every time. The newcomers would exit the bus and being yelled at the entire way to their respective blocks. For some of them, usually those who were in prison for the first time and perhaps even repentant, it might seem frightening. The very sensitive ones might be even traumatised. Others in return, who had been in prison before, didn’t bat an eye at the people shouting at them. And then there were those, whose second home was the slammer, as they called it. They were greeted with loud cheers and waved back at their hooting jailbirds as if they were football players, who just had won the world championship. Those usually meant trouble.

“That’s Myers again. He didn’t even make three months out”, Wilson, his colleague, said to him with an eye-roll.

He almost missed the silent statement as his eyes had caught a complete different sight. The last man, who had stepped out of the bus, seemed somewhat … _different_. Even from the distance Jim was watching from, he could see how he radiated a strange aura, a mixture of resignation, pride and ignorance. Like his surroundings weren’t real as long as he shut them out. Nonetheless, his movements had something tormented too, although he was really good in keeping it hidden. Jim, however, wasn’t to be fooled. He may have been young, but observing and interpreting people was one of his specialities. The way how he kept himself upright, holding his head high, eyes gloomy, and keeping his face straight, not looking to the sides where the inmates were jeering even louder now. As if he yielded up to his fate.

Wilson appeared at his side and whispered, “This is him. Poldark. Doesn’t seem to be bothered at all.”

“Who?”

Jim had been transferred to the HMP Exeter three years prior due to understaffing. Before that he had been a prison officer at HMP Manchester, a high-security men’s prison. Hence he was not familiar with local ‘luminaries’.

“Man, do you live under a rock? It was all over the papers! Look at his composure, I’ve never seen such an arrogant, stuck-up prick.”

When the blond man only shrugged, he explained.

“The Poldarks, running one of the biggest shipping companies in South-West England, are one of the main employers in Cornwall and therefore belong to the richest families around here. This is Ross Poldark, the late company boss’ nephew. He was sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of his uncle and attempted murder of his cousin and his wife.”

“The motive?”

“What do you think? Greed, of course! Their death would have made him the sole heir to the company and the family estate, since his other cousin was disinherited years ago for marrying a naval officer.”

Jim nodded absentmindedly. The men had come closer, since they were led to block C, the wing where Jim and Wilson worked. The two prison officers were standing at the gate to receive the convicts. He had a better look on the last one in the row now. His clenched jaw was distinctive, he had a slender nose and high cheekbones along with a pair of expressively curved eyebrows. His almost black curls seemed dull and entangled. Obviously custody and litigation had taken their toll on him. While Wilson had passed his demeanour as arrogant, Jim was under the impression that beneath a carefully put on façade this man looked utterly broken and somewhat scared, but didn’t want anyone to see. He couldn’t help but wonder how that matched to the insidious murderer he apparently was.

“How did he kill his uncle?”

“Poison,” Wilson snorted.

“Really? That’s usually a woman’s weapon.”

“Yes, that makes it so ridiculous in my eyes, as far as you can say that in case of murder. I mean, look at him. You might think he would shoot someone or smash their head. But poison them? That’s a craven act.”

“It seems a little out of place,” Jim murmured pensively, but soon had to let go of the thought, as the row of detainees reached the gate to block C and he had to take over. When Poldark passed him, the man’s eyes seemed to flicker for one second when his gaze darted at Jim. The latter though had not missed the flash of hesitation, which had crossed his face. The realisation that stepping through the gate meant never coming back hit the most of them hard and Poldark seemed to be no exception. But as fast as it had come it vanished and the scowl was back.

And yet, there was something unsettling about this man, but Jim couldn’t put a finger on it. That he was incredibly handsome didn’t help at all. 

_Great James! A sentenced murderer. Keep your shit together!_

The gate behind them snapped shut with a loud clang and the dark-haired man whirled around, eyes huge when they looked over Jim’s head towards the closed entrance.

The officer stepped forward, face strict and one hand on his billy club.

“Go. Come on,” he said with a calm but steely voice.

Poldark stared one last time at the gate, then his eyes met Jim’s, honey staring into azure, and the latter believed to see something stir in them, if only for a second. Although he couldn’t quite classify what he saw, it pulled at his heart-strings in a way he had never experienced before. The dark-haired man opened his mouth as if to say something, then recollected himself, turned again and followed the line of prisoners led by Wilson inside, Jim on his heels.

~~~

After finishing his final round Jim returned to the officer’s room, where Wilson had just finished the hand-over for the night shift. Poldark’s arrival was still the number one topic among the officers, although he was long clothed in his prisoner’s garb and locked in his cell. 

He had supervised the arrival procedure himself, observing the newcomers and getting a feeling for them. It was always the same; undressing, shower, disinfection, strip search. Well, Jim usually wasn’t too keen for the latter and thankfully today they had the trainee doing it. When they had reached the wide aisle, on which sides the long rows of prison cells were adjoined over three levels, a huge uproar had broken loose, just like before in the yard. But this time it was even louder and Jim could hear voices shouting Poldark’s name, without making out what was exactly said. When the automatic cell doors had closed for the night, Jim had stood in front of C34, Poldark’s new home, throwing one last glance at the man. The convict had looked back, his face unreadable and eyes sombre. 

Now, standing in the officer’s room and listening to his colleagues gossiping viciously about their newcomer while they had doughnuts and coffee, the blond felt a little out of place. What was wrong with them, had they always been such blabbermouths or was it a special thing with this Poldark person? Why the heck was the entire world freaking out over him? 

“Why is everyone so excited about him? It's not like he's the only murderer in our holy halls.”

“I see. Three years are not enough to look through our regional distinctions,” Wilson answered his question with a snort. 

“The Poldarks are not the most admired family in Cornwall. They may be one of the biggest employers around here, but the working conditions aren't the best and they treat their workers poorly. Backbreaking work, low wages and they are known to line their own pockets first. Working safety, accident control, health insurance; those are words of foreign origin for them. Charles Poldark was known as one of the most devious and greedy businessman. A slave driver, if you ask me." 

Jim had listened carefully and was slowly getting the point. 

"So I assume, given that staff and most convicts here are from Cornwall, almost everyone had some business with that family and their company in one way or the other? And their experiences weren’t that great? 

His colleagues nodded satisfied.

“As one makes their bed so they must lie on it.” 

Wilson’s voice was dripping with venom.

“So people might take out their grudge on Charles Poldark’s nephew, although he did them the favour to kill him?" 

"Too right laddie, I’m afraid," Montgomery confirmed. The elderly officer rubbed his portly belly while he crammed another doughnut into his mouth. 

"I'm 30 years in service and I tell you, they'll have his head."

“It'll be a hellish job to protect him then,” Jim stated thoughtfully, already feeling bad in a way while thinking about what possibly lay in front of the young man.

When the other officers only snorted sardonically, he stared at them in bewilderment. He had always disliked their attitude towards the detainees, as they usually avoided involvement in fights between the prisoners, stating it was due to the understaffing. ‘They’ll have to figure things out by themselves’, they usually brought on.

"He is our ward, just like everyone else. You can't just let them beat him to pulp.”

“Boy, I told you so very often. You’re way too enthusiastic and idealistic for this job. You can’t save them all, let alone rehabilitate them. They’re murderers, rapists, drug dealers; very harmful and dangerous people. A big-headed arsehole like him is not worth to go home with a broken nose.” 

Wilson had always been the worst of them. Lazy, resentful and bigoted as he was, he never gave a convict a chance, let alone helped them in any case or supported them. All he would do was displaying his authority; he would humiliate them and turn his gaze in the opposite direction if one was in trouble. That was not how Jim had imagined his work here. 

Compared to Manchester Exeter was a walk in the park. Yes, there were drugs and violence, a lot of them. Yes, there was chronic overcrowding and understaffing. Yes, the food was bad and the cells lousy. But still, as a high-security prison of category A Manchester held men, whose escape would endanger public or national security, whereas Exeter, a category B prison, held men for the same offences, but who didn’t require maximum security. Hence the security regulations were a little less stringent and the men were more manageable and agreeable. In return staff tended to let things slide and to look away. This was mostly because of manpower shortage, but also because most of them were indifferent and narrow minded. 

It was not that Jim was naïve or starry-eyed, really not. His years in Manchester had tought him better. He just thought that the men should be treated like human beings and that some of them, if only a handful, deserved a chance. They all had their history and one could never know what had led the one or other to what he had done. 

~~~

The main corridor had become quiet a while ago, but it was never completely dark in the hall due to the emergency lights. Behind his locked cell door, the man the entire prison talked about lay on his cot, curled up on the side. He looked at the bleak walls and the carvings left by former convicts who had inhabited this cell before him. 

This was it. This was the room he would spend the rest of his life in. With his 28 years said life might still be going on for a while and he better got used to the idea. To say he was not worried about the next day would have been a lie. He knew his family's reputation and what he had to expect from the other inmates as well as from staff. That he never had been much involved in the family business would not be of any interest. All what mattered was his name. In the darkness he thought about what help he could expect from the officers, coming to the result that it wouldn’t be too much. Save for that young blond, Hawkins. He had seemed not the worst person. At least he had not beaten him up immediately when he had stopped at the gate and he had set the other arrivals straight when they had started to deride and threaten him.

Lying there in the dark on his prison cot in his prison cell, wearing his prison clothing, comprehension slowly seeped in and his body felt as if made of lead, the loneliness weighing tons. For the first time he let his misery get to him and a single tear rolled down his cheek, trickling away in the flat worn-out rag, which served as a pillow.

He would never come out here again.


	2. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I'm so sorry it took me so long to update. This story is still refusing to cooperate and goes its own way everytime I sit down to write. Thus I had to replace the the originally planned 3 chapters with a question mark :(
> 
> The conditions and procedures in the prison are completely made-up and are only grounded on my own imagination, not on any serious research (tbh, I'd still be researching and not writing!)

The next morning saw Jim sitting at the breakfast table in the small apartment he lived in. The bowl of cereals was forgotten as he was consumed by trawling the internet, digging deep into the murder case of Charles Poldark.

 

What should have been a nice family meeting soon had turned into tragedy. After dinner Charles, already marked with old age and the consequences of life-long chain-smoking, hadn’t felt well and had lain down. Not two hours later he had been dead.

 

As the investigation revealed, the stew had been poisoned; mutton stew to be precisely, too strong in taste and smell to recognise the addition of its deathly ingredient right away. A dish, Ross Poldark didn’t like as it turned out, and therefore had something else to eat.

 

The stew had been mixed with a pesticide called Paraquat, or Gramoxone as its tradename was. The autopsy and laboratory testing of the served food had left no doubts. Beside Charles’ death, his son and daughter-in-law, Francis and Elizabeth, had shown light symptoms of intoxication too and had been brought to the hospital. There, a poisoning with Paraquat could be confirmed as well. Only old Aunt Agatha, who lived under the roof, had been spared. With her 95 years she stayed in her room most of the time and didn’t come downstairs to eat with the family anymore. Instead she got her meals brought to her room, which indicated that the dish had been mixed with the insecticide in the dining room and not in the kitchen, where her bowl had been filled.  

 

The investigation didn’t take too long. Soon it had turned out that Ross not only hadn’t had any stew himself, but also had been alone in the dining room when the service maid had brought the food. Furthermore the empty Paraquat bottle had been found in the trash barrel in his yard along with residues of the substance in the drain of his kitchen sink, although the young man had resolutely denied the possession and use of the insecticide in question.

 

And so he had been finally convicted on all charges, the murder of his uncle and the attempted murder of his cousin and his wife. Until the sentence was passed, Ross had insisted to be innocent. That, of course, had worsened the extent, since there was no confession and no remorse shown.

 

_Fool. You could have saved your ass with a 20 years sentence but you had to go for the life imprisonment with your stubbornness and pride._

 

Ross and his lawyer had desisted from the possibility to object because of the hopelessness of the case. The chain of proof seemed clear and conclusive, the evidence provided indisputable. And yet, something about it unsettled Jim deeply. But what? He couldn't put a finger on it. Again the flicker in Poldark's eyes, he had seen the day before when the gate had shut, crossed his mind; a sight which had haunted him half of the night. He still wondered why a defendant, who was clearly guilty and convicted by all charges due to the overwhelming evidence, would not confess to ease the sentence. But on the other hand, said defendant seemed one of the most stubborn people on the planet, at least according to the media.

 

Noticing that his bowl of cereals had turned into an unrecognisable gloop, he disposed it into the waste bin and got ready for work.

 

 

~~~

 

 

When he arrived for the evening shift, he learned that Ross Poldark miraculously had made it until after breakfast. But as soon as he had brought his tray away, he had been encountered by four men, known as the worst bullies in the entire prison and soon there had been a brawl ongoing. Confused he realised the tiny spark of satisfaction when he learnt that Ross had dealt out almost as many blows as he had received.

 

"I think they wanted to show his spoiled gums the culinary specialities of our kitchen before beating him to pulp."

 

"And Smith behind the serving counter didn't even spit in his porridge; he only made sure he had the slimiest clumps.”

 

"And did he eat it?" Jim asked doubtfully.

 

"Without blinking," his colleague Silver stated. The young man seemed truly impressed and didn't hide it. Unlike the other prison officers he had never treated convicts differently only because of their family, name or crime committed. He was more like Jim; driven by a strong sense for justice, free from any malevolence and determined to unsheathe the best in every person in his charge.

 

He liked working with Silver, since the man didn't treat the prisoners like they were animals. He was willing to give them a chance, motivated to help them finding another perspective and did not enforce his authority upon them with violence. He respected that they also had needs and that not all of them were lost cases, bound to spend a life behind bars. Jim wished there were more guards like them, but sadly they were the only ones who displayed this kind of attitude.

 

“He was stoic as an ox. I bet he doesn’t want to give anybody the satisfaction to see him break.”

 

Silver’s acknowledging tone had the older guards murmuring in disapproval.

 

“Are you taking his side or what?”

 

“There is no such a thing as a side here. He’s a convict like everybody else here. No more, no less. You should not forget this.”

 

They discussed the topic back and forth, but Jim did no longer listen. Keeping Poldark from harm seemed to be more difficult than he had thought, considering that the major part of the officers was most likely to look away if shit hit the fan.

 

It was only when he was outside to share a cigarette with Silver that he asked how badly Poldark had been injured. Not too bad, as it turned out, albeit his day was not over yet.

 

Jim also learnt that Ross had been assigned to the prison's laundry, an onerous and straining job. The prison saved money by doing all the laundry on its own. At the same time the inmates could be busied with something useful. Most of it had to be boiled and there was always a pressing heat in the rooms; and it was always loud. Large laundry cauldrons, in which the bedlinens were bleached, and the old rotary irons didn't help the temperature or the noise pollution. Plus, the prisoners had to deal with a lot of different chemicals like detergent, bleach or starch. All things considered, Jim didn't envy the men working there. There was always an aggressive and fearsome atmosphere, for the more difficult convicts worked there to blow off their energy. Given Poldark's unpopularity, Jim could imagine that he would probably get into trouble all too soon, as the laundry was poorly supervised by officers, who preferred to stay near the entrance area to avoid the heat and noise.

 

~~~

 

In the afternoon it was Jim's turn to pick up the laundry workers to accompany them to the prison courtyard along with the other inmates allocated in the different workshops. Altogether he had to supervise about thirty men, criminals of the worst sort, alone. He had a club and a gun, nothing more. Again he was horrified how the state cut the prisons short; with money, staff and security standards. No wonder there was almost no way to prevent a riot or fight.

 

_As long as they've built a wall, so officers would not be free to watch the convicts in the shower to protect their privacy - in a communal shower for twenty people - things are fine._

 

Jim, who stood exactly behind such a wall right now, listening to thirty men showering in a place built for twenty people tops, shook his head in incomprehension. Sure, there had been cases of sexual assault between prison staff and convicts. But building a wall was possibly not solving any of these problems. In his eyes, the imbalance of power paired with lazy, neglectful and poorly trained employees along with understaffing in overcrowded prisons were the main issues. As long as there were people like Wilson, who enforced his authority by corrupting and recruiting other convicts to beat up his victims, who weren’t willing to bend to his will, things would never change. Jim had even heard rumours about him concerning rape and once there had been a fatality no-one ever spoke about. Wilson was really a thorn in his side.

 

Not for the first time today his mind drifted off, being occupied with that Poldark guy. Jim had seen him earlier, noticing the black eye, a split lip and dried blood around his nostrils. They hadn't even given him the opportunity to clean up. He had asked if he needed to go to the infirmary, but the brunet had only shaken his head and growled something like "I'm fine". The quietly mumbled "Thank you" afterwards had barely been audible, but the blond officer had heard it anyway. Not without being puzzled though, for that was a line to not be heard often in these halls. He had looked in the taller man’s eyes for a brief moment, only to find nothing more than this brooding look, a mask of feigned indifference and determined strength, which Jim believed was factitious to hide his insecurity and fear.

 

He could not tell why he was so convinced of these emotions being hidden in the tall, dark man. He was a murderer, why would he be affected with his current circumstances? And yet, there was something in Poldark what stirred Jim; deep down in the pit of his stomach, maybe even lower. It was possibly just all this tall-and-dark-ness along with those spectacular features which had caught his attention.

 

_Pull yourself together, James!_

 

Under no circumstances he could allow this attraction, which was most likely short-lived anyways. Not only was Ross - _Ross?_ \- a sentenced murderer. No, it was _life_ -imprisonment he was convicted to. He was also his charge; there was no way he could ever take advantage of that. That would be exactly what he had thought about earlier - sexual assault. Many inmates succumbed to such demands, out of fear of punishment, poor treatment or other kinds of payback from the officers. An inmate needed impeccable officer's reports to be released on probation or be discharged for good behaviour, so most of them would do _anything_ for that if need be. The number of reported cases of blackmailing between officers and prisoners was large and increasing yearly; the dark figure was probably even higher.

 

For Jim blackmailing or assaulting a convict was absolutely, completely and totally out of question. Never ever! And it was most-unlikely they would ever develop something like gratuitousness. They were in prison after all; no one ever did something here out of free will. And besides, why was he even thinking about that???

 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden turmoil coming from the shower. Men were shouting and one was screaming; high-pitched and anxious.

 

_Not Poldark then._

 

Jim bolted around the corner of the ‘privacy wall’, how they jokingly called it, only to see three men, one of them Myers, the worst of all, towering over an older, smaller man. Jud Paynter, possibly the most harmless person in the entire prison, officers included. Jim remembered him having testified against Myers when the latter once had been accused of planning an escape attempt, although the hopes of the former to achieve something in his own probation application with that had been in vain. Now, returned after going on another caper, Myers obviously wanted to pay him back.

 

Before Jim could stop the attacker, who stood on one foot, the other raised to stomp on Jud's stomach, the huge man was yanked back by a pair of strong arms.

 

“Why don't you take on someone your size?”

 

This might have been a little exaggerated, as Ross Poldark, to whom the pair of arms belonged, was still one head shorter than Myers, a bald, heavily built man with rugged features and a scar running over his right forehead and eye. The dark-haired man was immediately held back by two of Myer's henchman while the latter landed a staggering punch on his chin, causing his head to snap sideways. Poldark growled, his dark eyes flashing with anger, and he breathed heavily. Blood was dripping from his mouth and he spat out. Then he hauled himself up in the tight grip of the two men and smashed his left foot right into the large man's groin, who immediately fell to the ground, doubling over and howling in pain.

 

The two holding Poldark immediately stepped back in shock and he could see him now towering over Myers. Ridiculously enough, for a split second all Jim could do, despite the precarious situation, was admiring the brunet with his broad shoulders, the rippled stomach and muscular thighs; black hair covering his chest and belly, trailing down to...

 

_Oh God James, don't look!!!!_

 

Realising only now that his torso was also bruised from the brawl in the morning, Jim dragged his gaze back to Poldark's face, _too late_. From there it went to Myers who still whined on the tiled floor. The other men were already cheering because of the entertainment.

 

Jim finally managed to pull himself together. He took his billy club and banged it on the metal pipes running along the wall.

 

"Gentlemen, fun is over! Everyone calm down and wash up.”

 

He walked over to Myers and held his hand out. The kneeling man shoved it off and staggered back to his feet on his own, legs wobbly and face ashen.

 

“I’ll kill you for that. I'll rip your balls off and feed them to the watch dogs. I'll break every single bone in your body and ...”

 

"ENOUGH!!!"

 

Jim's voice sounded through the echoing room, shutting the furious man down. Peripherally the officer noticed that Poldark didn’t even so much as batting an eye at the threats directed at him.

 

“I said everybody calm down. Then wash up. Then back to the cells. Courtyard is cancelled.”

 

He earned disgruntled murmur from the convicts. Then he turned to help Paynter up, but realised that Poldark already had done so. Gradually, the heated atmosphere cooled down and soon they were on their way back, all lined up and ordered by cell numbers.

 

To have a better view of the row the officers always walked at the end of the line. Normally there were supposed to be two of them, but understaffing forbade that on most days. Since C34 was the last cell on the right side, Jim happened to walk behind Poldark. The enticement to glance at his rear couldn't even be helped with the loose prison clothes, his imagination running wild all the time. Jim tried to concentrate on his job, scolding himself internally. He wasn't a teenager anymore; he could not allow himself to have those thoughts about inmates. He was still young and supposed to be working here for maybe another thirty or forty years and Poldark was sentenced to life imprisonment. He just couldn’t spend all this time drooling and fawning over a murderer. And yet he did.

 

"You know," he murmured, when they reached C34 and Poldark was about to enter his cell,  "I think you made a mortal enemy today.”

 

The brunet looked him in the eyes and hesitated briefly, then urgently looked away and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“May shorten my time in here.”

 

He entered his cell and Jim gave the sign for the colleague in the watch room to close the automatic cell doors. When the door slid shut the two men watched each other carefully, their eyes meeting again. Jim felt a tiny flutter in his stomach while Poldark's face remained impassive. But the blond noticed the motion which went through the dark eyes. There was something in them he couldn't place; something sad and longing. Regret? Hope? It couldn't be attraction, could it?

 

The snap of the lock startled both men and Jim mumbled a quiet “Good night“, which was actually stupid as it was only late afternoon. He lowered his head and rushed back to the officer’s room. He needed a cigarette to clear his head.

 

~~~

 

For the second time, Ross lay on his cot, desperately trying to find a comfortable position despite his battered state. His head ached terribly and the taste of blood was still on his tongue, probably not for the last time. Looking at his red and itching hands, he wondered how his chances to apply for another job where. He had always had difficulties to tolerate chemicals and working in the laundry definitely didn’t do him any good. He bit the inside of his cheeks to prevent himself from scratching, knowing it would only get worse.

 

But despite being beaten, bruised and utterly worn out only after his first day in his new living arrangements, his mind drifted off again, as it had done the entire day. Not to the resentment the prison staff and convicts met him with, not to the circumstances which had brought him here in the first place and not to the fact that he would be locked away for the rest of his miserable life, but to the blond officer in his neat uniform; with the golden curls and a mouth curved in a way which should be considered as pure sin. Let alone the ocean-blue eyes, which reminded him of the sea at his home close to the cliffs of the Cornish coast; a colour he had learnt to love and to long for from his earliest childhood on.

 

Ross didn't know what was wrong with him. He was in a dire situation with no way out, but his only concern was his attraction to Hawkins. He had never felt this way for a person that quickly. Actually, he had only seen him twice and both times he had drawn unwanted attention to himself.

 

_It's probably just the nerves._

 

He tried to push it off as some kind of last straw his troubled mind groped for. Sentenced, banged up, isolated and exposed to hatred and disdain as he was, this was probably the only logical reaction; turning towards the only source of comfort and cling to it, even if it was most likely imaginary.

 

Hawkins had not comforted him in any way. He had just ... just not been an arsehole like anybody else. Surely he could have used his billy club the other day, when Ross had stopped and turned back to the gate. He also could have used it today in the shower. After all he, Ross, had attacked another inmate and given the way the other officers cowered in front of Myers, he wouldn't have been surprised when the situation had been interpreted to his disadvantage. Instead, Hawkins had ignored his behaviour. He had even asked if he needed medical attention earlier that day. No-one had in the morning, when they finally had pulled off the four men who had attacked him, when he had lain on the floor, curled up into a ball and spluttering blood. Not to mention the fact that he would have declined such an offer anyway, for he knew only all too well who worked at the prison’s infirmary.

 

Maybe it was only his imagination but the blond seemed to be different. He hadn't shown any resentment towards him so far. He seemed to treat the inmates all the same, friendly and fair, but with a strict hand if need be. Ross had no doubt he would have made use of his club and gun, if it had been necessary in the showers today. The other prisoners appeared to have some respect for him, since the turmoil immediately had settled down after his arrival. Trying to get the blond out of his thoughts, he shook his head fiercely. What a ridiculous thought, a crush on a prison officer. He willed himself to think about something else.

 

His mind drifted to his remaining family, no longer at speaking terms with him. To his cousin Verity, whom he had not seen in two years ever since she had gotten disinherited and thrown out of Trenwith. It had not stopped them from talking over the phone regularly and it seemed that she was now, away from her father and brother, way happier than ever before. And yet, she had always loved them. He wondered, if she already knew about her father's fate. Oh, how she must hate him now. The thought made Ross swallow hard. Verity, his friends and employees from his own little business, Dwight and Caroline ... they all had to be full of contempt for him now. He could only be relieved that his parents didn't live to see him sentenced. The disappointment and shame written on their faces would have been unbearable.

 

He was sure the house he had inherited from them, Nampara, was rotting away by now, his dog probably starved or run away, hopefully the latter. After his father's death three years ago, Seamus had been everything he had left. The grieving process had been hard, since he and his dad had been very close ever since his mother had passed away when he had been only 9 years old. He wouldn't have made it without his friends and Verity. They always had had his back, even Francis and Elizabeth. Well, not anymore, now that he was in prison. No, he was all alone.

 

He might have been able to suppress the urge to scratch his itching hands, but he was not that successful with leaving his nails and cuticles alone. He had picked up that old nasty habit in custody again, after he had successfully quitted over 10 years ago. Now his nails were already gnawed off and in a desolate state, his cuticles bloody and sore. He nagged at the sensible skin with his teeth, nibbling until he drew blood. Despite the pain it soothed him a little. And who did care for the state of his hands anyway?

 

He turned again on the cot and stared at the ceiling, following the small cracks in the concrete. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep; without success. He wondered if he would ever be able to sleep properly again. Ever since Charles' death his nights had been a mixture of sleepless turning and tossing around along with short episodes of restless slumbering.

 

As they had been returned to the cells right after work, it was still early, and yet he was exhausted. The heat and humidity of the laundry, the constant insults from the other inmates, the insomnia ... all that was nerve - and body wrecking beyond measure. He was used to hard labour; that was not the point. But he had still difficulties to wrap his head around the current circumstances and the resentment from all sides, something he had never experienced in his life before. He didn’t need any more trouble, let alone emotional chaos because his lonely mind was seeking comfort in unattainably men.

 

He had to pull himself together. Breathe, work, sleep, eat. That was how he would survive in here. That would be his devise until he would close his eyes for the last time. Stay out of trouble with convicts. Stay out of trouble with officers. Stay out of anything involving attraction to certain men. Breathe, work, sleep, eat.

 

_If only that were so easy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to visit my tumblr and say hi :D

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit my tumblr and say hi! :)


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